My stomach leaps up my chest when I focus on the screen. At the top of the Maui Food Festival webpage are the results of the poll. Tiva’s Filipina Kusina sits at the top in bright red letters, the number ninety-seven next to our name. My breath comes out in a huff. I can’t make words.

“Holy . . . wow . . .”

I don’t let myself blink when I look at the results. I don’t want that bright red number going anywhere.

Still grinning wide, Penelope nods her head while laughing giddily. “Hell yes, holy wow! You freaking did it!”

Slowly, I nod my head. Processing is still a struggle, but after another few seconds of Penelope’s giddy squeals and congratulations, it finally sinks in. We won. Mom and I, we did it. We established ourselves as the top eatery on the island, beating every other restaurant and food truck in the festival. We just won twenty thousand dollars. Nothing else even close to matters.

I wait for the wave of emotion to hit, for the joy, the relief, the adrenaline rush of success to paint me from the inside out. But it never comes. Inside every muscle is tense. My blood pumps like slow-moving sludge. There is not one iota of joy, happiness, or excitement inside of me.

“This calls for champagne!” Penelope says.

She pulls away and chatters on about a new cocktail place near her apartment. Her words fade into the background, though, the longer I stand there.

Champagne.

The last time I had champagne was with Callum, cuddled next to him on his couch, just before we screwed each other’s brains out. I’ll never, ever have champagne with him again—I’ll never have anything with him again.

Our win means he and Finn won’t share a food truck spot with us anymore.

I won’t see Callum’s face every time I look up from the truck window. I’ll never get another eyebrow wag that serves as a secret smile between us. We’ll never share another champagne-drinking contest, another kiss, another cuddle, or another flirty conversation.

Hot tears burn my eyes. Penelope doesn’t seem to notice as she’s still chattering away, looking up an address on her phone. I pull out my phone from my pocket, call up the Maui Food Festival site, and check the results once more. And then I see it. I zero in on the text that rests below Tiva’s ranking. Hungry Chaps is in second place, scoring two points lower than us.

“Um . . .”

Penelope glances up at me. “What?”

I turn my phone to her, remarking just how close Callum and Finn were to beating us.

She shrugs, a look of ease lighting up her face. “A win is a win. Besides”—she beams and pats my shoulder—“he’s your boyfriend. He loves you and he’ll be happy for you, promise.”

She winks before looking back down at her phone.